WRITING

My father had passed away when I was 9. He was an entertainer, if you could even call it that. He devoted his life to the art of Mime; idolizing people like Samuel Avital, Les Bubb, and of course Marcel Marceau. It was his passion and my shame. I hated it. I hated him for doing it and because of that we were never close. But when he was savagely beat at the park where he performed for tips by a group of then high school boys something changed within me.